


Always there

by xsunny



Category: The Alienist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s01e09 Requiem (The Alienist), Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mild Blood, Stitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:48:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24366067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsunny/pseuds/xsunny
Summary: The doorbell rang, and he couldn't find it in himself the will or the strength to open the door. Not after everything that happened, not after… Mary.This story takes place during the episode s01e09: Requiem.
Relationships: Laszlo Kreizler/Mary Palmer
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	Always there

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to Darth_Cannizard, U_Bahnstation, Quicksiluers and Fanfie1991. DC, thank you again for such an amazing gift!
> 
> Warning: This story mentions self harm and suicide ideation. If these topics may trigger you, or make you feel uncomfortable, *please* be safe and don't read this story.

***

The doorbell rang, and he couldn't find it in himself the will or the strength to open the door. Not after everything that happened, not after… Mary. 

The wound on his arm still throbbed and bled freely, a dull reminder that life was still happening despite her absence. 

The doorbell rang again, and again… Nobody would answer the door tonight, certainly not him. He just wanted the pain to go away, the moments of true happiness he lived with her now a memory that would never come to life again. No inflicted pain would change that.

Seconds passed as blood dripped from the wound, his will and his strength leaving him, a small puddle of mesmerizing red now forming on the expensive tablecloth.

The doorbell again… It was a reminder that life, unstoppable life, was still running, someone demanding attention, deeming necessary disturbing the occupants - occupant - of a house turned into a… he couldn't finish the thought. No one else was in the house to answer the door.

He felt lightheaded, his methodical mind supplying it was too soon to be blood loss, but that it would soon change if he did nothing. He was probably experiencing some shock, the wine, lack of oxygenation due his slumped position over his arm, lack of food, lack of sleep, lack of… Mary. 

She would never be there again.

The doorbell again... Irritation at whoever couldn't understand he wasn't available robbed him of his worst thoughts. If he was to do this, whatever _this_ was, it would be on his own terms.

He gathered his strength, not for a second caring for the trail of red droplets left on wooden floors and tapestry. 

He opened the door… John almost fell over him in his haste to enter, endearing John, reliable John, the one always there, always worried about him.

He said no word as a torrent of questions left John's lips, his preoccupation showing clear as day and limpid as night. He just felt so tired…

He went to the same chair, the same table… the same house without her.

Disgruntled words, John no more just impatient, but worried, distressed, trying to reach him on levels he didn't feel like he could connect to just now. 

He rested his head on his bleeding arm again, the red stain growing and blossoming like a deadly flower on the grass of his thick robe fabric. 

John, afflicted now, his voice bestowing upon him the love and worry only a true friend could, his own belated answers and reactions betraying his true state of mind and weakness of body.

Was it finally blood loss? He couldn't recall much about why he should be worried. 

A shake on his shoulders, firm and gentle, waking him from his stupor. From a very far away place he heard John imploring him to tell what to do, not to leave him in the dark - and in that moment, Laszlo took his decision. John, as Mary, would never let him on his own, would never leave him. He owed them trying.

With precise, if slurred, words, he showed John how to patch him, how to sew shut the cut on his arm, and on his soul. He refused the numbing drugs available on his medical bag, each stitch anchoring him more to this world, binding him to the pain while also setting him free.

He feels Mary's hand holding his own. He feels John holding his other hand, keeping it in place while he sews, letting his own warmth bleed to his now cold skin. He endures the pain by being held by them.

John is considerate and caring, if sloppy and tentative in delivering the stitches - his parlor betraying how taxing it is to fix him, to hear his small intakes of breath and see the silent tears running down his face. 

As the bandages are applied with extreme care not to cause any more harm, he thinks the words John is telling him mean much more than their meaning. Only someone truly devoted and with a great heart would do something so selfless as caring for someone like him. Only someone like Mary and like John. _Never an impostor to them..._

After all is set and done, it's John, suave John, who half drags, half steers him to his room, who removes his blood drenched clothes and sees… him, in all his vulnerability and pain - and humanness. It's John who is there when Mary no longer can.

It's John who tucks him into bed, who covers him with blankets, who lies by his side talking nonsense that makes all the sense while he starts to fall asleep. He feels Mary's presence close by, blessing him. And he feels John's.

John, the constant in his life, the one he loves as he loves Mary. Tomorrow he'll be able to think about everything else. Tonight... tonight he had an angel in the Skies and one on Earth, both caring for him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Darth_Cannizard wrote the lovely "Some Kind Of Psychological Gratification" in 20 minutes, and the sheer impossibility of it sounded like a challenge. 
> 
> And challenge given is challenge accepted, so I tried writing a story in 20 minutes too. (To be honest, I stopped the counter for a few minutes to watch the last scenes of Blade Runner - and to think it was unapologetically interrupted by a meaningless ad :sigh:) 
> 
> As Lt. Mackenzie would say, the whump is _par for the course_. ;)


End file.
